I need to get over this man. It’s been five years.Five years. Hedumped mebecause I wasyoungandimmature. If his idea of maturity is that woman in that inappropriate outfit, then more power to him.
Maybe she gives really good head, Ember.
I give good head.
I close my eyes. The last thing I need is to remember having sex with him while he’s sitting near me with his soon-to-be wife.
“Yes, like that, Sweet Em. Suck me deep.” His hands are tangled in my hair as he controls my movements while I’m on my knees in his bedroom. I have a hand holding him and another between my legs, because I’m so turned on.
“No. You don’t come until I make you,” he growls. “Both hands behind your back.”
It’s erotic, the way he takes charge. It’s also erotic when he lets me take charge. Ransom is a considerate and generous lover.
He empties in my mouth, asks me to keep him there, keep him warm for a little longer, his eyes closed.
Then he throws me on his bed, and his mouth is on my clit.
“My turn.” He suckles. “And yours.”
I squirm at the memory, intoxicated by the remembered taste and feel of him.
Universe, you suck!
“Latika and the kids are landing at Geneva soon,” I hear Aksel say. “They’ll be here by dinner.”
I smile at the thought of my favorite people in the world. My niece and nephew. Anika is eight. Thomas,who likes to be addressed asThomas the Tank Engine,is five.
“Did they get the stuffed animals I sent?” Ransom asks.
My head swivels.What’s he doing sendingmylittle people gifts?
“Yeah,” Aksel chuckles. “Thomas named his polar bear ‘Dr. Ransom’ and gave it a backstory involving a tragic glacier accident.”
“I can’t wait to meet your children,” Calypso interjects. “Ransom’s told me so much about them.”
“Anika is a live wire.” Ransom sounds indulgent and proud. I don’t look at him. Can’t. “Is Thomas still a Tank Engine?”
It’s too painful to hear him talk about Aksel’s kids with Calypso because it makes me think about him having kids with her. So I zone them out and turn to the window again, watching the snow-covered trees flash by as we descend into town.
The sun sets in a couple of hours, even before it turns five—the sky is a wash of powder blue and lavender. The snow has stopped falling, but the trees still wear it like a hush. Everything in Chamonix looks like a postcard—too perfect to be real.
I have always felt privileged to live a life that allows me to spend time in this magical winter wonderland.
This time of year is special in so many ways.
The air smells of chimney smoke and roasting chestnuts.
Bright red garlands and white fairy lights are strung across Rue du Docteur Paccard.
Shopfronts gleam with holiday displays: gilded chocolates, fur-trimmed boots, watercolor snow scenes, and so much wool it could clothe a small village.
We go to our favorite restaurant, La Calèche, one of Chamonix’s oldest. We’ve been coming here, with our parents, since we were children.
Dark timbered walls, copper pans hanging like medals, and the warm scent of cheese and garlic envelops us when we enter. A scent that isoh so familiar.
The music is Christmassy, and Freja ribs Aksel about it. He’s all pretense. I have seen him dress like Santa for his kids, and sing songs along with them.
A server seats us at a long table by the window.
